A Parisian Love Story
by Nothing Really Specific
Summary: When the world sees all romance as cliche, a group of people try to prove that true life and love can exist by living. "The old cliche, 'every man dies but not every man lives' is true. Let me add to that if I may- no one loves. Every man dies, not every man lives, and no one loves. Isn't that the saddest phrase you've ever heard in your life?"


**A Parisian Love Story**

_I like not only to be loved, but also to be told I am loved._  
-George Eliot

Dedicated to Yves Montand

**Theme Song: **"Blue Skies" by Noah and the Whale

* * *

**Chapter I: The Silver Spoon**

**_Paris, France _**

**_Present Day_**

The silver spoon that lay in the desk drawer of Mister Anton Ego woke up feeling optimistic about itself. For it knew, as all spoons do, that at some point there was going to be a meal and therefore a use. Why spoons need a conscience is another matter in itself, but was does need addressing is the fact that Mister Anton Ego had not touched this particular drawer for over two years and the spoon figured, as all spoons do, that at some point there was going to be a meal and therefore a use.

Pacing before his desk in thought, Anton began to wonder what the reasoning was behind his recent downturn. At the moment, he was thoroughly unimpressed with _La Ratatouille_, having tried the menu sampled the wine and tasted the deserts. He had become accustomed to writing the same praise and was utterly repulsed by the seemingly perfectionist establishment.

"_La Ratatouille_ has proven itself worthy to be one of the top restaurants in the world that doesn't break the wallet." He said on October 25th of last year when he ordered a beautifully prepared and expertly served Steamed Mussels with White Wine, Tarragon, Shallots, Butter and Grilled French Bread at a reasonable price.

Anton knew that he wanted something original. It had to be superior with elite staff and chef but also willing to change the menu. Out of all the restaurants critiqued and served at, the only place the even remotely resembled that description was Gusteau's.

_"Lately,"_ Anton thought as he continued to pace, "_it has been increasingly apparent that Monsieur Rémy and Monsieur Linguini have been relying on the gimmick of mouse chef for too long and do not appear to have any intention on changing their direction. In order to save establishments from becoming clichés of themselves, the proprietors must change their management course."_

Turning towards his desk, Anton looked towards the drawer with the silver spoon and strode toward it part in desperation and part curiosity. He sat down in his chair, instinctively placing his hands on his typewriter in the correct position. There was already paper threaded in. An unfinished critique stared at him:

_ Genius can only be measured by the quality of one's thoughts, the originality of one's thoughts, and the truth of one's thoughts. These three simple qualities: quality, originality and truth, combine sublimely in the heart of French cuisine. The only geniuses in the world that I know of have been philosophers and dreamers and even they, men of mortality, have passed into history as shams at times. However, there is one genius that shall never pass into history this way and that is-_

Anton Ego sighed, closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, taking a moment to himself.

"Why is it," he said, "that I have become a clichéd parrot?"

_Simple answer,_ he immediately thought, _you frequently visit the same restaurant and you only seem to critique that one particular establishment. You have neglected your other visits and patrons. If all you publish is praise about one particular place then the other businesses will go out sooner or later. In theory anyway._

He opened his eyes and realized that the unfinished review was for a restaurant called_ Thoumieux_. Rereading it, Anton rolled his eyes.

"I must have been fantasizing about La Rata- no," he reached out, placing his hand on the paper, "call it something else. You've been eating there too much." He had the nerve to rip the paper out of the typewriter and start over. His reputation called against it.

"I need something to keep my mind of it." He said. He looked around and saw the remedy for his addiction, a turntable with a record already in place- it loyally sat on the floor next to a garbage can on the left side of the desk near the largest window in the place. Anton stood, walked up the window, leaned down and played the record. Frank Sinatra's _One for My Baby_.

Looking out into the city seeing rain fall onto the roofs of small apartment buildings and flower shops, Anton Ego stared at the world reclusively- as if he had been betrayed by the system he helped build.

Down on the sidewalk, a woman wearing a red dress carried an umbrella with one hand and a bag of groceries with the other. Cars, bicycles and scooters were stalled to a halt as lights from streetlamps glared onto the wet street and reflected in water puddles. Anton looked down at his watch, it was exactly seven-thirty- the end of the dinner rush and the beginning of his usual shift.

Turning back to his desk, Anton noticed for the first time in a long while, a small picture of him and an old friend of his standing in front of a restaurant. Walking back over, Anton smiled a bit as he picked the picture up.

"Jacques Deforest René," he said reminiscently, he laughed a bit, noticing that his friend held a silver spoon up in the air as if it were an Olympic gold medal.

Jacques Deforest René is for the record, an anamorphic Snake Eagle. Why anamorphic animals have human consciences is another matter in itself but was need addressing is that Jacques Deforest René is the head waiter at _Le Meurice_.

"He was always fond of that spoon." Anton said, "If I recall correctly he gave it to me as a parting gift. I wonder if I still have it."

He sat the picture down on the desk, more in view of the typewriter so he could remember it more when he saw the drawer with the abovementioned silver spoon.

Placing his right hand on the drawer and pulling it open, Anton beheld the silver spoon which smiled at him, greeting him with a soft reflection of a lamp located on the left side of the desk. The critic cleaned the spoon with his shirt, removing dust and noticing a bit of rust on the handle. Nonetheless Anton smiled, lifted the spoon into the world and turned it over revealing an engraving that read: _J Def R._

"The places I keep things." Anton said laughed a bit, resumed his seat in the chair, placed the spoon in his pocket and resumed his position at the typewriter. Fingers perfectly resting above the home row keys and eyes locked on the unfinished critique as if his career depended on giving the truth about the restaurant he knew he was really writing about.

With all sincerity, Anton Ego swallowed any affection and emotion he had for a certain place of business, finished his thought process, ripped the paper out of the typewriter, placed it on top of the clean stack of paper and proceeded to exit his office.

Grabbing his coat from the hanging rack, Ego removed the spoon from his pocket, looked at it again, smiled again and placed the silverware in his right coat pocket. As Anton locked his door and descended the stair case to a small lobby, the spoon happily swayed in the pocket, thinking that wherever Anton was taking it, it was better than a desk drawer.

* * *

Monsieur François Évariste, the concierge for Anton Ego's building wore a casual suit that evening. A black tuxedo jacket, white formal shirt, black tie and a gold blue jay pin that was beginning to lose its shine but still looked respectable. François sat at his modest desk filing mundane paperwork (bills) when Aton entered the lobby.

The lobby was quaint. Beige tile with black accents on the floor and beige walls gave the room the feel of a high class restaurant. In the center was a glass chandelier that turned into a beautiful prism in a certain light, which was soft and welcoming, like a lobby chandelier should be.

"Bonne soirée Monsieur Ego." Évariste said with a smile and look toward Anton.

"Expect me back sometime after nine o'clock." Anton said, "If I'm not back by ten would you send a car for me?"

"Of course," the concierge replied, "may I ask where you are going?"

"Le Meurice."

"Oh!" François said slightly disheartened, "tell Jacques I said hello."

Anton nodded, "Will do. If you want I can bring you something."

Évariste looked up at his employer in surprise, he was still getting used to Anton's reformation. "If you would be so kind as to order whatever you wish for me," François said, "I would be most grateful."

"Grand Cru 1894?" Anton asked.

The concierge's smile grew a bit. "Monsieur, you do realize that wine is the most expensive wine in the world."

"I know," Anton said, "which is why I'm getting it for you. You deserve it."

François stood from his chair, walked out of his desk and met Anton from behind. The concierge placed his hands on the critic's upper arms and patted his right hand twice. "Merci." Évariste said.

"You were always the sentimentalist." Anton repiled. He turned and walked out of the door. François followed him, grabbed Anton's umbrella from the hook on the wall, handed it to him and with a smile said, "Dum vita est spes est."

"Oui," Anton replied, "there is hope. Why we insist on rushing life to find it is a mystery I intend to solve."

"Godspeed then." François said and left his patron to his affairs.

* * *

The rain pattered down on car roofs and pavement as Anton walked down Place Vendôme toward the Seine and Le Meurice restaurant. The wind blew slightly causing his umbrella to get away from his slightly and the ambition of his steps caused the silver spoon a headache.

Passing an alleyway and approaching the curb, Anton stepped down onto the street and into a puddle, not caring if his shoes got wet or not. As he crossed the street though he turned right towards the alleyway and saw a mangy looking cat. It was bluish gray and in the most severe stage of starvation. The eyes were large and desperate, the stomach was small and diminishing and the fur was tangled and knotted.

Feeling a sense of humanitarianism, Anton cautiously approached the cat, who noticed him and instantly backed away. Anton stopped, slowly crouched down and extended his palm. Nonetheless, the cat continued his backward walking straight into a garbage can. The impact was loud enough to wake the resident of said garbage can, a larger cat of the same demeanor than the bluish gray one save one difference, it was brown.

The brown cat, sensing the uneasiness of the smaller, leapt to the ground in front, stood rather protectively and hissed. Anton stood, slowly backed away and continued his route.

The Ministère de la Justice had a calm façade as Anton passed with firm conviction. Seeing him walk towards destiny made the building reflect the streetlights a bit brighter for a moment. It was as if the world, despite the rain, was smiling at him- wanting the critic to venture into the adventure that is life for once.

* * *

_Le Meurice_ was one of those restraints that has class in the name and on the front door. Gold trimmed plates, real silver silverware, velvet upholstered chairs and milk colored table cloths and curtains, it isn't one of the top restaurants in the world because it has an elegant sounding name, it is one of the top restaurants in the world because it simply is.

The host for the evening, Monsieur Valéry Emmanuel , stood with expert posture as Anton Ego walked through the door.

"Monsieur Ego," Emmanuel said, "I shall show you to your usual table."

He led Anton to a table next to the window near the sidewalk overlooking a small park and the Seine. Out front a white 1905 Rolls-Royce was parked on the other side of the street.

To Ego's left, across the way, was a man in his thirties wearing a hand-me-down suit jacket and a semi formal undershirt, looked like he simply walked in with no means of paying for his meal.

"I'm sorry Anton," Emmanuel replied, "but in respect of the deceased no one shall be waiting this table."

"No matter," Anton said looking over to the decrepit soul in the suit jacket, "I'll find someplace else. Make sure he's taken care of as well. Hate to see anyone starve."

Valéry turned towards the man and nodded, "Of course." He exited.

Anton pulled out the silver spoon from his pocket, exposing it to the brilliance of elegancy. It took delight in being able to see the old place. The spoon received a beautiful homecoming held by the tablecloth- the soft fabric embracing it warmly and securely. The spoon looked up at the lights, warming itself with a smile.

The man wearing the decrepit suit had a ring box sitting on his table. The man stared at it as if it were the only thing in the world. Across from him was an empty seat as well as a clear view of a man in military uniform telling news to his family. Their mouths agape and eyes filled with bitter water, the only one who had courage to speak was the eldest son.

"Do you have to go father?" The boy asked.

"Yes I do." The man in uniform replied, "It is for the good of the country."

The wife nodded, her makeup was starting to run down her face. "Your father's right," she said, not caring if the whole world saw this display. "it's for the good of the country." Her hands were the color of the table cloth and began to shake as if she were a frail porcelain doll about to fall from a shelf. The husband embraced her.

"I'll be alright." He said.

"When do you leave?" She asked.

Another man in uniform walked up to the table. He didn't say or do anything expect stare. The father stood silently and exited the restaurant with all the pride and dignity he had. The wife buried her face on the tablecloth and screamed for mercy and in a span of five seconds (for that is the time it took for her husband to leave the vicinity of the restaurant) became a widow.

The man in the decrepit suit stood up, forgetting his ring box and walked over to the grieving widow.

"Excuse me Madame," he said calmly. "would you mind if I sit down?"

"Leave us alone," the eldest son replied, "can't you see that this is a private matter?"

The lonely ring bearer turned towards the boy and smiled, "You have an awfully sophisticated way of putting things for someone your age."

"I'm twelve," the boy said, "if that's what you're wondering."

"Intelligent and headstrong?" The man asked laughing a bit, "You're quite the Napoleon aren't you? May I ask your name?"

The woman looked up at him, her mascara reminiscent of Oedipus. "What do you want with us?"

"Just offering a bit of humanitarianism and good will Madame," the man replied.

"We don't need your sympathy." The eldest son said.

"Well," the man said, "you need _something_."

"Yes," the wife said, "we need you to leave us alone."

The man nodded, "As you wish."

Walking back to his table, the man in the decrepit suit, whose name was fittingly Jean, placed his ring box in his pocket and resumed his seat.

Anton looked over toward him, seeing this display and walked on over.

"If you're trying to woo her," Anton said, "might I suggest waiting until after the tears have stopped?"

Jean smiled. "Actually Monsieur Ego," he said, "I was trying to be a Good Samaritan."

Anton motioned for the empty chair.

"Please," Jean replied, "at least I'll have someone to talk too."

Anton took the seat across from him, pulled it in a bit and shot a glance towards the spoon. It was still there on the table.

* * *

The 1905 Rolls-Royce was claimed by a seventy-eight year old man. He carried a rose in one hand and a book in the other. The book- _Paris Peasant _by Louis Aragon, was beginning to yellow and turn frail in the rain but the seventy-eight year man paid no attention to this. Instead he drove down the street towards the Louvre- into the rain and (quite literally) into the Seine.

* * *

Dieudonné Armistead, a waiter of seventeen years, strode over to the table with order book in hand. He had the face of someone whose job it was to be punctual at every occasion. Although technically true for waiters, Dieudonné or Don as he preferred, took the phrase "punctual perfectionism" to a whole new disturbing level.

"Apologizes for the wait Monsieurs," he said, "we have been very busy tonight."

"It's no trouble." Anton replied. "I'll have the Chef's Special, whatever that may be."

"That would be the Sole au Vin Blanc, would that suffice?"

"It would." Anton answered.

Don nodded and took the order down. "Anything to drink with that?"

"Grand Cru," Anton answered, "your finest."

"One bottle of 1894." Don replied, writing it down as well. The waiter turned towards Jean. "For you?"

"I'll just have water."

Don looked at him as if he were insane. Overlooking him, so would any other person. For one thing, Jean wasn't the most appealing or attractive person in the world. His face was somewhat dirty as if he had just finished a service and was carrying a parole slip in his back pocket. His shoes were falling apart and he smelled as if he had not bathed in about two days.

"Are you sure?" Don asked.

"Oui," Jean answered, "I'm sure."

"Alright, I'll be back with that as soon as possible." Don left rather quickly, finding the situation a bit awkward.

Anton looked at Jean's left ring finger, noticing a recent indentation that fit the exact dimensions of a wedding ring. Jean turned towards the door, his face a bit disheartened as he saw a woman in a red dress walk in with a maître d' who was just relieved from his shift.

" Keep love in your heart. A life without it is like a sunless garden when the flowers are dead."

"Ah," Ego said with an impressed smile, "I see you are fan of Oscar Wilde."

Jean nodded, "He understands what love is."

"So he did."

Jean laughed, "Why the past tense?"

"Simple dear sir," Anton said, "Oscar Wilde is dead."

Jean laughed again, this time a bit louder. The military widow turned towards him with a glare. She was still upset from earlier and wasn't about to hold out on his attempted flirtation.

"Would you please stop laughing?" She said.

Anton turned towards her, "Apologizes for the loss but have some respect for humor. What the man said was funny and it's perfectly natural to laugh at a joke."

"Well we're not laughing," the eldest son replied, "we're grieving."

Anton huffed, "No one likes an attention wh-"

"It's fine." Jean interrupted. "Leave them alone, they've had a long day."

Don returned with their orders moments after this. Presenting everything on a tray as if it were being served to royalty, Don presented Anton's first then Jean's. He placed two wine glasses on the table and poured the wine as if it were the elixir of life- too precious to waste and too important to make a mistake with.

"Don," Anton said noticing that the waiter was behaving rather slowly with the whole ordeal, "it's wine."

"Yes," Don answered, "I'm just being careful not to stain your clothes or the tablecloth Monsieur."

"If that's your reasoning then that's your reasoning but I would prefer it be done quickly. I don't want to be here all night."Anton replied.

"Oui Monsieur." Don said. He poured a little faster.

Jean drank his water, noticing that Anton's disposition was a bit off. For one thing his posture was straight but his shoulders were down as if he were slouching. His face spoke of tiredness and sleep deprivation as well as a hint of disappointment. He tapped his fingers on the table as Don continued the slow wine pouring. For a moment, Jean thought he heard Anton sigh and roll his eyes.

The silver spoon still sat on the table, looking toward Anton Ego as if it were a child wanting to play a game with his father. Trying its best to move, the piece of silverware was dismayed when it realized that it couldn't possibly do so (for walking spoons are ridiculous) and decided to give in and fall asleep, wrapping itself nicely in the tablecloth.

* * *

The phone on François Évariste's desk was one of those vintage phones with the annoying tone to it. The phone, who was an epileptic, was in the middle of a seizure. Shaking like someone who took too many caffeine pills, the communication device went so far as to commit suicide (i.e. falling off the desk) to get the concierge's attention. François was too busy reading _Notre-Dame de Paris _to notice.

"Eh," he said glancing over at the phone which miraculously survived, "I'll get it later."

His cell phone, which was in his pocket, rang, repeating his ringtone twice. He answered.

"Hello?" He asked.

"François," the caller said, breathing heavily as if he had just completed a marathon, "you need to come at the intersection of Royal and Tuileries immédiatement!"

"Whoa slow down Monsieur what's going on?"

"A man driving a Rolls Royce just drove into the Seine. You have to help me out here!"

François sighed and rolled his eyes.

"I'm sorry but I can't. I have a job to do and how do you know me?"

" François, it's me!" The caller screamed. "It's your old pal Jacques!"

François ' heart skipped a beat. His hands became clammy and his forehead slowly began to sweat. "Jacques," the concierge said timidly, "you're alive?"

"Oui Monsieur, now come on and help me!"

Without even bothering to hang up the phone, François put it back in his pocket and exited the building full speed.

* * *

By the time he reached his destination Jacques had single handedly pulled the old man out of the vehicle and called a doctor who was already at the scene. To François' surprise, this doctor was...odd. Odd as in, well he was in respect a rodent, to be specific, a mouse. Why a mouse needs to be involved is another matter in itself but was does need to be addressed is that Mister Tilden Wavell hailed from Oxford.

The old man, who was laid out on the sidewalk, was motionless.

"Jacques," the mouse said, standing on the old man's torso, "give me the time."

"Oui Monsieur Wavell." René replied with a disheartened sigh as he rolled up his shirt sleeve and looked at his watch. "Nine-thirty seven."

"Thank you." He grabbed a pad and pen from his black surgical bag next to the body and wrote the information down. After this, he placed the pad, the pen, and the gloves he wore in the surgical bag and closed it.

"You did your best." Tilden said.

"It's not like he had many years anyway." François replied, butting into the conversation.

Tilden turned, beheld the concierge and said in a mediocre French accent, " Vous devez être François. Plaisir de rencontrer votre connaissance, mon nom est Tilden Wavell et je suis ici pour-"

"I speak English very well." François said, "Also, I know who you are, why you are here and yes, we've met before."

"Really?" Tilden said, "I swore I've never seen you before."

François turned towards Jacques, noticing the sky was beginning to purple and the street lights shone a bit brighter. It was as if he were in the middle of a carnival, lights from the traffic, restaurants and the Louvre (which was directly in front of them) all congregated into one large mass of illumination. At the corner, towards _Le Meurice, _an amateur accordionist began to play Paris' signature love song: _La Vie en Rose_.

"I have to be getting back Jacques," François said, "it was good seeing you." He turned towards the doctor, "Monsieur Wavell."

"I'll be in town for a few weeks, checking in on our mutual friend here." The mouse said, turning towards Jacques with an encouraging smile, "If you need me you can find me at Hotel Notre-Dame Saint Michael just across the river."

"Good to know." François replied and left as quickly as he came.

* * *

Don was still pouring wine. At this point Anton simply gave up and walked back over to his original table, placing the silver spoon in his pocket. As Anton sat down, Jacques walked past his window. The waiter almost had the nerve to go in but realized that as soon as he showed up he would instantly be put to work. To avoid having to work on his day off Jacques continued walking but did so slowly.

_W_hy _is Don pouring the wine so slow? _Jacques thought.

Curious, Deforest made his way back to the window. Anton didn't even bother to look at him, he was too focused on the silver spoon which he pulled out his pocket again. Jacques noticed this and smiled.

"He still has that spoon. Good ol' Anton always a promise keeper. I wonder if he still thinks I'm dead." He tapped the window pane.

Anton looked over and almost cried when he saw him. He stood up and rushed out of the place, almost toppling a waiter and spilling a three hundred dollar meal. His heart raced and his adrenaline levels were through the roof. He wondered what he would say, a simple hello wouldn't suffice but neither would anything else either. Standing on the sidewalk, Anton smiled and walked nonchalantly toward him as if what he just did was a Road Runner impression.

"Jacques," Anton said, "I thought you were dead."

"Can't kill genius." Jacques replied. "Monsieur Wavell revived me after 'the incident' and after some rehabilitation, Chef LeFontaine was gracious enough to give me my old job back."

"Well, that is generous." Anton said.

"Oui, apparently he and Don were lost without me."

"How come I never see you anymore?" Anton asked.

"I usually work the night shift and usually you go anywhere else but here. Am I diseased or something?" Jacques laughed, "To be fair, I never made the effort to come and see you either. Come on, I'll buy you dinner, it'll give us a chance to catch up and for me to make amends for the error."

"I would be delighted but," Anton looked back over at Jean, "there's someone else who needs the generosity more."

"Who is that?" Jacques asked.

Anton pointed to Jean. The waiter looked at him and smiled, "Ah, a regular Clopin Trouillefou."

"He isn't a thief." Anton said, "He's more like a grieving Quaismodo than anything. You were a grief counselor once if I remember correctly. Go and help him out, see if needs anything. I already ordered himself something behind his back."

"Want me to pretend it's not for him?" Jacques asked. "I can dawn the cummerbund and shirt for a few moments."

"I'll pay you handsomely for it."

"No need to Anton." the bird said smiling, "for you cannot place a price on humanitarianism, just remember to tip," he walked towards the restaurant door, "it returns the favor." He laughed at his restaurant humor and advice and entered the restaurant.

Anton stood and watched from the window. From what he could tell everything was smooth sailing. Jean was being fed, Don was comforted by the fact that Jacques was there (for he could only pour wine for so long) and the military widow and her family finally received their peace by leaving altogether.

All the while though, the silver spoon still lay sleeping on the table. Then it heard Jacques' voice and smiled, it would have leaped for joy but leaping spoons are ridiculous, so the spoon put on a face and waited to picked up.

When all the business of the bill and food was taken care of, Jacques walked over to the table with the spoon, picked it up and seeing that Anton was still standing there, held up in the same manner he had done in the photograph on Ego's desk.

Anton smiled, waved goodbye and proceeded to walk back to his office.

* * *

"How was your dinner?" François asked.

"It was good," Anton said, "sorry about the wine, they were out."

"That's alright," the concierge said. "Do you know anything about a Tilden Wavell?"

"I've heard of him but never met the man." Anton said. "Why?"

"Man is a stretch," François said, "he's more like something out of a British children's novel."

"Or an Irish children's novel." Anton said. As he made his way to the staircase, Anton quoted his reference_. _

"Beyond the Wild Wood comes the wild world, and that's something that doesn't matter, either to you or to me. I've never been there, and I'm never going' nor you either, if you've got any sense at all."


End file.
